My Version Is Superior

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBqDBvplA64">

I had a dream last night that involved a football celebration party, reserved seating and a restaurant inside the locker room. I was discussing the Drake with some girl and I told her that I don’t go to places where they make me wait in line with the commoners. I sang some of the lyrics to Green Door for her.

Removing The Cork

Silly me.
I forgot the most important part.
I had a hellish week, physically speaking.
I had my feelings hurt.
I caught a chest cold.
I burned the skin off of my face in the name of beauty.
My uterus is cramped into a firmly clenched fist.
I woke up from my nap with a giant hive on my cheek.
I have not gone out to drink the sweet nectar from the teat of Babalon in nearly two weeks.
I have neither stroked nor mounted the untamed beast.
I have forgotten my true nature.
I have lost my wild way.
However, I know where I left it, my wild way, and I am going now to retrieve it.
I’ll be right back.

And Thus, He Came To Be

I’m going to do it.
I, Mavis With-no-last-name, will make a frankenboytoy.
I have no use for a whole man, he would clash with my frankenheart.
Too pure.
Too whole.
Undeserving of my shoddily reconstructed self.
I will create the first draft out of felt.
He will be tall and thin with dark hair.
He will have eyes with which to see.
He will have ears with which to hear.
A mouth with which to speak.
A brain with which to think.
A heart with which to feel.
And a great big weiner with which to fuck.
I’m going to name him Finnegan Wellington Charlesworth.

My Eye Candy Is Irrelevant

Telemarketers.
Fuck.
I get so many telemarketing calls. I even had a telemarketer phone me recently and tell me that I get a lot of telemarketing calls.
I noticed. Thanks.
Roommate and I used to have a list of tricks to play on telemarketers. I can’t remember any of them, except for the one where you put on a hardcore stutter. When the telemarketer tries to finish your sentence for you, you tell them “D-d-d-don’t f-f-f-f-inish m-m-m-m-y sen-sen-sente-sen-s-s-sen-senten-s-s-”
And so on.
So tattoos.
They’ve been on my mind lately, due to a couple of conversations.
I had started stating my viewpoint on tattoos both times with both people, but never reached any definitive conclusion.
I figured it out last night.
I had originally stated that I don’t like anything enough to have it permanently etched into my skin, but that’s only half a thought.
I had stated in the second conversation that I don’t like people judging me for not having a fucking tattoo. Like I’m not up to their standard of cool.
I have no interest in getting some image permanently etched into my skin for the approval of others. That’s what a tattoo would be for me. Something to show off.
Tattooing is simply an artistic medium that I never explored or had any interest in, except for homemade jobs. They’re kinda cool.
Commercial tattoos are so fucking trendy.
I prefer my trends to be easily discarded once I tire of them.

For The Love of Princes and Princesses

In the past, I’ve experimented with gnostic states.
However, I’m an impatient kind of gal, so I didn’t do much involving meditating.
Dancing was the instrument of choice. Circle dancing, mixed with breathing techniques worked well for me.
I’ve been able to cast spells to increase my sexual attractiveness, and I’ve been able to see ghosts, or something like that.
It’s been years since I tried any sort of spell or gnostic experiment. I’m more into divination through Tarot nowadays.
Tarot works well. I can find out when I’m going to meet an interesting weirdo, or when I’m going to suffer the effects of a shameover.

Hiiiiiiiiigh Above Me

It’s funny the way your mind is shaped by early experiences.
Cinderella was my first favourite movie.
I’ve known it since I was five.
I was scrubbing silkscreens in the bathtub this evening and my immediate association was with Cinderella.
I always Sing Sweet Nightingale when I scrub, which isn’t very often, as I’m not terribly domestic.